Paint It Red, Black & Blue
by 221b Baker Street
Summary: A sequel to Paint It Red, but set immediately after Crimson Casanova. Arlov wants his painting back...
1. Chapter 1

**Paint it Red, Black & Blue**

_Disclaimer: I own 2 dogs, 2 cats, a horse, a husband, 3 kids, 3 cars, and a big house full of books, but I don't own the Mentalist. Thanks to CBS for sharing…_

_**Chapter 1**_

It was 2:00am and the Calistoga Canyon Resort and Spa pool-side bar was closing for the night. The bartender had cleaned every table, every glass, every nacho bowl, had even taken over the custodial duty of washing the floor directly behind the bar itself, not a customary part of his job description, but the lone remaining patron just wouldn't seem to take the hint. He was a good-looking fellow, blond hair, big smile, had a smart wardrobe and tipped well. He had been at the same stool from early evening on, talked to all of 2 people, and nursed a lone Scotch for at least 4 hours. Well, with the exception of the one he'd tossed in someone's face early on, it had only been one, a nice Glenfiddich, neat and at room temperature. The man obviously had taste. It was the "lone" part that was the odd thing, for while the bartenders of the _Calistoga Canyon Resort and Spa_ were well-versed in the art of discretion, some things just got noticed.

"I'm sorry, sir," said the bartender. "We're closing up for the night."

"Oh, I'm sorry," answered the man, looking as if he had just surfaced from diving in an ocean of thought. "I guess I lost track of time…"

The bartender smiled. The guy was likeable, if a little odd. "It's alright. I can arrange to have something sent to your room if you'd like –"

Big smile now. "Ah, I'm not staying here. Just um…finishing up. Thanks, though. Much appreciated." He slapped down another twenty and rose to his feet. "Good night."

"Good night, sir." The bartender watched him go, then switched off the lights and headed home for the night.

Patrick Jane didn't own a watch. Time was a concept that had little or no importance for him. Late appointments were only inconvenient for the other person. He always had plenty of things to occupy his time.

He debated going for a walk. He loved walking at night. Rather, he had come to love walking at night. He had come to love the quiet, the dim lights, the night people and their quirky ways. The big expanse of dark sky overhead. And the desert sky was particularly beautiful, so clear and heavy and inky black, with stars that looked like jewels on velvet, going on and on forever. It was only at night under a big open sky where he thought nothing, felt nothing, absolutely nothing at all, except perhaps for the admiration of the beauty and power of nothingness.

A lonely, unloved young woman was dead.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and ambled across the dark _Calistoga Canyon_ parking lot toward the SUV. They had left it for him when he had decided to stay. They were good that way, discreet actually. They took care of him in ways he had never experienced before his time with the CBI, allowed him the freedom to be as self-directed, or as self-absorbed as he needed. He knew they had his back. It was a very good feeling.

He paused at the sight of a multitude of dark SUVs and shook his head. The sports cars, he could understand, but SUVs in California never failed to irk him. As if any of them went off-road. They were invented for sports equipment. They rarely carried golf clubs, let alone a mountain bike. He pulled out the keys, pressed the locate button, and the familiar blip of lights led him onward. He put the key in the lock and paused, grinning.

She had warned him not to come home with any tickets. As if he was a speeder. As if she was so very careful. It was charming.

All sorts of signs tell you when someone is approaching. The crunch of shoes on gravel, the darkening of the reflection in the window, the hairs on the nape of your neck standing up. Two men, big ones, directly behind, no stealth, just purpose.

He swung around, finger on the alert button, but a massive palm caught his wrist, bent it backwards, causing the keys to drop to the ground and Jane to yelp out in pain.

"Not the hands, not the hands," he muttered, as they pushed him roughly backwards into the side of the SUV. They were big, that was for sure, but there was something more. He studied their faces as one fished in his jacket pockets for his cell-phone. "I…I recognize you…"

The man grinned as he dramatically held up the phone with two fingers, dropped it also to the ground and crushed it under his massive shoe. He then reached into his own pocket and pulled out something dark and metallic. The other smelled of vodka and garlic and leaned in close to Jane's ear.

"Mr. Arlov wants his painting back."

"Oh dear."

And the beautiful heavy inky black sky descended on him like a hammer.

________________________________________________________________________

Jane was right.

She tried to shake it off, the twist in her gut that always occurred when she came to that conclusion. He was always right, and while part of that was comforting, it sometimes made her feel inadequate, unprofessional, small. Of course, as he had rebuked her before, she could always harness that frustration to make herself better, sharper, smarter. She cursed him again, and began to harness.

You just knew when things were wrong. That was a fundamental principle of his. You couldn't always pinpoint it, at least not as quickly as he, no one could, but deep down, you always knew. As she strode into the CBI HQ that bright sunny morning, she had cast her eyes around, allowing herself to take all the "usual things', Rolph at the front desk checking people in, the hum of agents moving to and fro, the ring of phones and cell phones. The smell of freshly brewing coffee and the sharp tang of ink. The constant sound of paper and conversation.

She was usually early, and today was no exception. A lone agent at his desk, not one of hers but then again, the office housed many units, many specialties, under it's high piped ceiling. Open concept work flow, engineered to stimulate creative thinking. Neither Cho nor Rigsby nor Van Pelt were in yet, but they would be soon. Never late. Her team was good.

The couch was empty.

She hmphed under her breath. The one thing wrong in the entire scenario. He was usually there. He couldn't sleep in the vast barren piece of architecture he called a house, so when he did elect to sleep, it was usually here. The couch was leather, and you could almost see the impression of his body, worn into its mahogany skin. No one else sat there. It was his place.

She entered her office and dialed the garage beneath the building.

"Hey Vicente," she began. "It's Lisbon. Did the second SUV get in last night? No? Yeah, the bum probably checked himself in at the resort…" She laughed softly. "Yes, that's possible too. He could have 'made a wrong toin at Albuqurque…' Let me know when he checks it in, 'kay? Thanks." She hung up and sat for a moment.

She dialed his cell. No answer. She hmphed again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw them stroll in as a trio, relaxed and confident, and she couldn't help but smile. She was sure they coordinated it, arriving at the same place, at exactly the same time, looking for all the world like a modern-day Mod Squad. If they could move in slow motion, she knew they would.

"Hey," she said, rising from her desk and greeting them at the door of her office. "Anyone talk to Jane lately?"

Cho glanced at the other two, who promptly fished inside their pockets for money and handed it over. Lisbon rolled her eyes, Rigsby shrugged. "Cho said leaving the car with Jane was a bad idea…"

Her face turned to stone. "You-" she looked at Rigsby – "And you –" she looked at Cho – "Go back and find him, please."

And as promptly as they had entered, they left, leaving Van Pelt nervously wringing her hands. "…Cho says you should have him micro-chipped…like a dog…"

She hmphed one last time and turned back to her office, once again hating the sensation of Patrick Jane being right.

_**End of Chapter 1**_


	2. Chapter 2

**Paint it Red, Black and Blue**

_Just what one might logically expect when one steals a $50,000,000 painting from a sadistic, violent but highly methodical and psychologically astute Russian mobster…_

_**Chapter 2**_

The sensations came slowly out of the darkness. First, the smell of salt and fish. Then the sounds, creaking, rushing, and the sharp cries of birds. The copper tang of blood on his tongue. The rocking, he thought, was almost organic, and he wasn't sure if it was from outside, an external force, or it was something he himself was doing. What he found interesting however, was the fact that he couldn't see.

Pain came afterwards, dull and throbbing from his head, sharp and nasty from his wrist. He silently cursed the buffoon who had grabbed him. Asinine, hirsute and uncouth – no finesse whatsoever. Sleight of hand didn't work without the hand. Idiot. Buffoon.

He could hear footsteps above, and voices, and he knew that he was inside the main quarters of a ship, and from the sounds of the voices, a Russian ship. Then it came back in a rush – '_Arlov wants his painting back.'_ And for the first time in a long time, Patrick Jane realized he just might be in trouble.

Hmm. He needed to think about this.

He shifted his weight. He was lying on his side on a smooth wooden floor, likely urethane-coated because of the glazed and slippery feel of it on his cheek. His hands were bound behind his back, likely with duct tape. Ah, he thought, one reason why his wrist hurt so terribly and another for why he couldn't see. Blinking was impossible. His eyes were taped shut. He made a smacking sound with his lips and grinned. At least his mouth was free. He fought the urge to laugh.

"You find this funny, Mr. Jane."

The voice, a soft rolling tenor, like a cat purring, and the unforgettable accent, clipped and gutteral, distinctly Russian. Chirarli Arlov.

"Well, yes," he began. "On one level, it's very funny. Physically funny, I mean, insofar as you left to me the one avenue most would like to shut up or stop. On a secondary level, there is a certain amount of irony, or poetic justice – say, do you mind if I sit up? This is very uncomfortable…"

He tried to roll up but a shoe on his shoulder pushed him back down.

"No," said Arlov. "This is good."

"Oh, fair enough." Go with the flow. Like Judo. Use your opponent's strengths against him. Draw him out. Get him talking. "Um, so your buffoons said you wanted your painting back…"

"No. Not really."

"Oh?" That was surprising.

There was a long silence. It could only mean one of two things.

"Ah. You've already talked to Caid…"

A rustle of fabric, the shoe left, only to be replaced by the other. "He will give me the Morreau, and I will give him oil rights to an island I have in the Baltic."

"Hm. Good deal."

"I think so, yes."

"So, why am I here?"

Arlov shouted something and suddenly his shoe was gone. There was stomping, as if down wooden steps, and Jane was yanked to his feet, his wrist sending sharp daggers of pain up his arm. Next the sound of Arlov going up, up, up, light on his feet in his deck shoes, then the stomping, yanking and tugging of the buffoons, dragging him up the short but very steep steps to the deck above. And sunlight.

They stood him in what seemed to the center of a main deck. He could tell because the sound bounced all around him, but was muffled at a distance of 2 meters on every side. Padded seating, no doubt, for lounging, fishing, sunning or watching the occasional torture. Past that was the ocean, and he was grateful for the wind on his face, plucking at his shirt and waistcoat. His jacket was gone. Damn, he thought. He liked that jacket.

Another order barked. Arlov was 2m in front of him, seated from the sound of it. Rough hands on his shoulders pushed him to his knees. Fingers pried at the tape on his temple, trying to find a corner. Jane braced himself.

"That's the dilemma, isn't it? If you take it off quickly, it hurts a lot. However, if you take it off slowly, it's more the slow psychological –"

The buffoon ripped. It hurt. A lot.

Sunshine blazed into his eyes, and they watered and squinted in the brilliance of it. Arlov was directly in front, as guessed, seated on the padded edge of the yacht, wearing a tan polo shirt and khaki shorts. He had a tall glass of what was likely vodka-laced orange juice in one hand, and a gorgeous young woman in a bikini was lighting a cigarette for the other.

"Hello," Jane said to the woman. She turned, appraised him with her eyes, smiled. Arlov grinned at the interaction, reached up to caress her face, tangle his fingers in her long dark hair, pulled her down to his lips and whispered. Her face changed immediately, and she disappeared to the fore of the ship.

"Nice girl," said Jane. "Here on a scholarship?"

Arlov grinned again, the predatory one, a cat eyeing up a cheeky mouse. "Tell me something, Mr. Jane. You seem to be an intelligent man, yes…"

Jane shrugged. It was true.

"I mean, you had to have done your homework…" The way Arlov said it, it came out _'you hhhed to hhhev dunyurrr hhhomvoork…' _Jane couldn't help but smile.

"Honestly, with your accent, you just sound so diabolical. It's perfect, really it is." He buried the urge to swallow hard, however, when Arlov rose smoothly from the seat and crossed the wooden floor to stand directly facing him. He wasn't a tall man by any means, but when you're kneeling, everyone has the upper hand.

The Russian took a long drag from the cigarette. "Did you not think there would be consequences, Mr. Jane?"

"Um, well, actually, I did. I thought –"

The blow came out of nowhere, a backhand still holding the cigarette, across the cheek. Stars, popping lights, the usual stuff. Small burn from the tip of the cigarette. He had been punched by many a grieving father, slapped by many a grieving widow. This, this was different.

"You were fast. So very fast. Like a rabbit. I should have killed you then and there…"

A stray thought crossed his mind - a good offense is the best defense. Jane steeled his eyes, not certain if it was the right tactic but willing to give it a try. "You cannot kill an officer of the law in California –"

Another blow, the other cheek. "You are not… a police officer, Mr. Jane." And another. "And we are not… in California…" And another.

Jane struggled to stay upright. His head was reeling. He couldn't remember this level of physical pain in a long while. It didn't frighten him. It was merely an inconvenience. It interfered with his ability to think.

He ran his tongue along his teeth. Still intact, fortunately. His brain, his hands, his smile. Tools of the trade. He needed them all.

"What do you want?" he asked, his jaw throbbing and beginning to swell.

Arlov crouched down, his eyes cold, dead, like a shark's. Yes, that was it. Not a cat, a shark. "I want you to shut up."

The Russian straightened and moved over to the seat. He lowered himself slowly, like a king. "I want you to shut up and not say one word. Not one word, do you understand me, little rabbit? If you say even one word, I will have my friends pick you up and throw you into the water."

Jane weighed his responses, decided that a good offense was best left to things like football and hockey, and that in this situation, Judo was by far the more excellent strategy. He decided to say nothing.

"How long do you think you can swim like that, little rabbit? Without your hands free you will quickly tire, and soon the water will become your friend. She will swallow you whole, like a whale, and no one will ever know what happened to the little rabbit named Patrick Jane."

Jane looked at the deck. There was nothing at all he could do, certainly nothing he could say. And so they stayed like that, Jane on his knees and Arlov on his deck seat, for a very long time in the hot Pacific sun.

_**End of chapter 2**_


	3. Chapter 3

**Paint It Red, Black & Blue**

_**Chapter 3**_

California is a big state. Sacramento, the capital, is north of center, and nothing, not even San Francisco, is less that a 3 hour drive along innumerable interstates. Sometimes, in high profile cases, the CBI team was allowed to use the helicopters, as they were by far the most efficient mode of transportation across the vast Golden Bear state. They crossed mountains and deserts and vineyards and farmland with equal ease.

Unfortunately, fetching a wayward consultant from a 'resort and spa' didn't qualify as a high profile case, so Rigsby and Cho had to put in the mileage, drive the long hours, in yet another black SUV. It was early afternoon when they pulled into the_ Calistoga Canyon _parking lot and immediately spied the missing car amongst all the others.

Rigsby slurped down the last of his Big Gulp. "Lisbon's gonna kill him."

"Yep," said Cho, slipping his new shades onto his eyes and getting out of the car. Rigsby grinned. Jane had surely decked him out last night, new suit, new shades, and apparently, a new attitude to boot. The agent had it all going on. All he needed now was a woman.

He joined Cho at the SUV. Cho was already examining the door, where a faint but new scratch had been left, approximately waist height. Hands on hips, Rigsby scanned the area, taking in the sports cars, luxury sedans, SUVs. Not a clunker in the bunch. Tough economic times had obviously not reached the _Calistoga Canyon Resort and Spa_. He glanced down at his feet.

"Look," he pointed. "Something got broken."

Cho bent down to retrieve the small pieces of black plastic. "Cell phone?"

"Could be anything. Let's go see if he checked in."

Cho straightened, scanned the ground as well, but the gravel was hard packed and reasonably clean. Made sense they would have a groundskeeper. If there was anything here, it was long gone by now. "Right. Let's go."

And for the third time in as many days, they headed under the archway of the _Calistoga Canyon Resort and Spa_.

________________________________________________________________________

The front desk was quite literally a desk in the front. The lobby was spacious - gleaming ceramic tile, adobe brick accents, white washed walls, rich furniture and lush floral arrangements everywhere. The very picture of the opulent South West. The Bell Captain sitting at that desk had been extremely helpful, fawning even, and Rigsby was convinced he was gay.

"He's not here," said Cho into his phone. "At least, he hasn't booked in using his own name."

"Did anyone see him leave?" It was Lisbon on the other end, her voice still matter-of-fact. "What about Frick or Katie or the bartender?"

"We've asked to speak to them. The bartender gets on at 4:00. Frick and Katie are coming down."

Rigsby grinned. "Making up is hard to do…"

Cho grimaced. "We found something in the gravel –"

"Oh, yeah." Rigsby turned to the man at the desk. "Has anyone turned in a cell phone? From the parking lot? In one piece or many…"

The attendant smiled. "Oh yes. A cell phone and a set of keys…" He reached into one of the desk's carved drawers. "This morning one of the custodial staff found them in the parking lot by one of the cars."

Rigsby grabbed them, holding them up so Cho could see. Cho rolled his eyes. "Yeah, phone and keys here. Okay, we'll keep you posted." He folded the phone and slipped it into his pocket.

"There's a State ID number on these keys," Rigsby was saying as he leaned over the front desk. "You didn't think to phone it in?"

The young man shrugged. "_Calistoga Canyon_ is an exclusive resort, sir. We get all kinds."

"Losing their keys?"

"I have a monogrammed pair of boxers in this drawer too, Officer. Do you want me to report those as well?"

"Funny."

"Creepy," said Cho. "Who monograms their underwear?"

"As I said," the Bell Captain smiled again. "We get all kinds."

"Great." And the two agents waited patiently for their crimson Casanova and his lady love Katie and cursed the day they met Patrick Jane.

_________________________________________________________

Patrick Jane cursed the day he met Chirarli Arlov.

No, that wasn't quite true. Arlov was a shark, that much was true, but he was what he was and there was no pretense to anything else. It was actually the Morreau. He cursed the day he first saw the Morreau, with her golden gilt frame, Mona Lisa smile and green silk dress. Oh yes, and the red hair.

No, no, actually, it was Caid. A.P. Caid, who cared more for his lost painting than lost son-in-law. Or was it Stevie, the grieving daughter, who truly loved a man no good for her, and somehow made him better for it? That was probably it, the need to prove that the love of a good and honest woman can make any man just want to be better.

Deep down, he knew he ought to be cursing himself, his own bloody arrogance. Did he honestly expect to rob a Russian mobster without consequence, and the answer to that was, of course, yes. Yes, yes, a thousand times yes. It was the rush and the consequences be damned. Consequences never bothered him. There was no consequence higher than the one that had already been paid. Been there. Done that. Bought the T-shirt, tore it to pieces, painted it with red.

The sun was blazing down on his neck, unprotected head, chapping lips. It was causing his waist-coat to literally suck to his back and chest, sweat acting as a sort of glue. Every muscle in his body ached, groaned from maintaining this very same position for what seemed like days, although he knew he had not lost consciousness, so it was only 6 hours at best. Still, Lisbon had always chided him for not being able to sit still for minutes let alone hours, claimed he had ADHD or something like it. Therefore, this was somewhat of an achievement, if he thought about it.

And there was nothing else to do but think.

Arlov had spent the better part of the day conducting business via his cell-phone and laptop. He had the freedom to get up, stretch his legs, have a drink, munch a caviar-laden cracker, read a novel, take a nap. He was even gone for a while, one of the buffoons always standing in front or behind him, ready to grab him by the collar and chuck him over the side into the water. The boat was rocking gently, moored as it was somewhere off the coast of America, and right now, with the way he was feeling, the water was sounding good.

"How are you feeling, little rabbit?" Arlov again, and he knelt down to face him. He had a glass of sparkling water in his hand. It looked very good. The icicles clinked and called to him. Beads of condensation ran down the length, dripped off Arlov's fingertips to puddle on the deck floor. Jane's autonomic nervous system responded by causing him to swallow, but there was nothing in his mouth to swallow.

Arlov grinned.

"You want it, yes? Just ask, little rabbit. Just ask and I will give you water."

Jane said nothing. This was nothing more than a heightened game of Simon Says meets Russian Roulette, and he had no idea how to play. Arlov was capricious. There was no reason with him, only want.

"No? Too bad. It's good, see…" He raised the glass to his lips, drank it all down, sighed sweetly when it was done. He stood up. "Next time, yes?" And reached down, patted Jane on the head, and walked away, barking in Russian to the buffoons elsewhere on the boat.

Jane let out a deep breath. Yes, he most definitely should be cursing Chirarli Arlov.

________________________________________________________

"Oh him, yeah I saw him last night… uhm, in the bar…"

The crimson Casanova himself, Paul Frick, was standing with one arm wrapped around the blonde woman's waist and the other one holding a cocktail with a little umbrella in it. Katie, for her part, was on cloud nine, alternately kissing him on the cheek and leaning her head on his shoulder. Cho rolled his eyes. True love blew big chunks sometimes.

Rigsby had his notepad out. "And…?"

"And that was it. We talked, you know, mano a mano, about the ladies. I tried to talk some sense into him, but well, you know, some guys, they like their balls and chains…"

Katie giggled and slapped him on the chest. He nuzzled her neck.

"But I left him there, ask the bartender. I had…" Again with the nuzzling. "…_other _matters to attend to…"

"I think I'm gonna puke," grumbled Cho, under his breath.

"And so," urged Rigsby. "What time did you last see him? Approximately."

"I don't know. Maybe around 10:30, closer to 11:00? What time did we book into the room, Katie-pie?"

"Hmm, yeah, about that. I was kinda busy…"

"Swept off your feet."

She giggled, so that her answered sounded like a horse whinney. _Heeheeyeah…_

Rigsby cleared his throat. "So, the last time either of you saw Patrick Jane was around 11:00 last night?"

They both nodded. "Can we go? We have a lot of catching up to do…"

_"Heeheeyeah,"_ Katie again, and together they turned and headed off, Katie throwing a wink and a thumbs up sign back at Kimball Cho before disappearing down the hallway.

"Okay," said Rigsby. "Let me get this straight. Love and Affection, alternating with Contempt, Control and Excitation."

"I hate you," said Cho. "I'm going to check out the bar."

"Sounds good."

And they plodded off, two very single men, towards the surprisingly high female population of the _Calistoga Canyon Resort and Spa_ pool-side bar.

_**End of Chapter 3**_


	4. Chapter 4

**Paint it Red, Black & Blue**

_**Chapter 4**_

The phone rang and it caused her to flinch. She had been lost in thought. "Well?" she demanded.

"Forensics is on it's way." It was Cho. "The bartender kicked him out at 2:00, when the bar closed."

"Was he drunk?"

"One Scotch. All night. I'd say no."

She let out a deep breath. That was always her worst fear. Pain made people need to escape, and alcohol let them. Cars were just accidents waiting to happen. "Okay, they found the keys and cell by the car –"

"Yeah, the phone looks like it's been stepped on."

"Crap. And Frick has an iron-clad alibi?"

"Iron clad. Hand-cuffed. Bound with silk stockings. Depends on the accessories…"

"Oh please, spare me." She pinched the bridge of her nose. "Did he just go for a walk? You know how he goes for those stupid long walks…at night…alone…in the dark…"

There was a pause. "You want me to call in a dog?"

"That might be a good idea. If he's got himself lost in the desert…"

"But why drop the keys? Step on the phone? And remember, there's a scratch on the car."

"Right. I forgot." A very unpleasant sensation began to creep its way into her head. It moved very quickly to her throat, causing it to tighten, and down to her chest, causing her heart to thud like a warning drum. She had been about to ask _Who would want to grab Jane? _But the answer seemed too obvious, too raw.

"Boss?" Cho, still on the line. "Where's the nearest K9 unit? You want me to make the call?"

She ground her teeth, forcing the thought out of her mind. "Yeah, make the call. I'll sign off on it. He can pay for a lifetime of dog food when we find him…"

"Right." And Kimball Cho hung up. She waited for a second, then redialed. "Hi Shirley, it's Teresa in Serious Crimes. I need to talk to Minelli. Patrick Jane's gone missing…"

________________________________

He had slowed his heart rate, focused his thoughts inward, tried desperately to control his breathing. He was hyperventilating, panting like a dog and not by choice. His body was threatening to shut itself down, dizzy as he was and dehydrated from the heat, his hand and arm now swollen and burning, muscles building up lactic acid and trembling in attempts to cool itself down. But night was coming. It would be better soon.

There was music in the air. Vivaldi. The heart-breaking strings of Summer's Adagio. Anne-Sophie Mutter, most likely. She was brilliant. He raised his head, eyes closed, smiling, as night fell. The pain, the water, the night, the music.

It was beautiful.

_____________________________________

It was 10:00 pm and Teresa Lisbon felt sick. The dog had turned up nothing in the parking lot of the _Calistoga Canyon Resort and Spa. _Had sniffed around the SUV, and again around a spot where obviously another vehicle had been that night. It had roamed all over the Resort, to the pool-side bar, to the previous rooms rented by Claire Wolcott, Doc Lady and the CBI team. It had roamed wherever Jane had been for the last three days. They had even tried taking the dog out to the highway, to see if it could pick up a scent, but it had kept heading back to the cars, eventually laying down on the spot and refusing to budge as if done for the day.

Obviously, Jane had either gotten into or been put into another vehicle, and that didn't bode well for him. He was unpredictable, to be sure, reckless even, and rash, but one thing he was not was foolish.

Minelli had called in the Missing Persons Unit and they were coordinating with Cho and Rigsby at the Resort. The Unit Chief, Senior Agent Andy Mack, was with Lisbon in her office, making a list of people who might possibly have motive to harm the consultant, and after 45 minutes, the list had grown quite long. And those were only people she knew about, enemies he had made in the course of the few years they had worked together at the CBI. People he had provoked, insulted, hounded, embarrassed or put behind bars.

Yep, she sighed. A good long list.

And at the top of the list was Red John.

Her mind kept returning to the thought, to the name, to the image of the red smiley face painted in blood on the wall over his bed. It was bound to happen sooner or later, but to tell the truth, Lisbon was hoping for later. It was also bound to be ugly, however it ended, as he had promised her a killing, so either Jane would end up dead, or in jail, and again, neither of those options appealed to her. As she sat at her desk, she marveled at how much she wanted neither of those to happen.

Her world would be a darker place without his smile, she admitted to herself, and that thought disturbed her. It had been a long time since she had found herself dependent on anyone, let alone a man. Let alone a man like Patrick Jane, brilliant, eccentric, unpredictable and frustrating, not at all the kind of man she had pictured herself falling for. Not, of course, that she was falling for him. Not at all. He was useful, that was all. For the team. He closed cases like a fiend, Minelli had said. Yes, Jane was useful. And amusing. To be admired and pitied and studied and used. Nothing more. And yet…

"Agent Lisbon?"

She jolted out of her reverie, focusing on the dark, worried face of Andy Mack, the Missing Persons Unit Chief.

"Sorry, Andy. Um, I'm just tired."

His hand covered hers. He was a good 15 years older than her, happily married, a big brother or father figure almost. Deep voice, calm demeanor, very comforting, a good man to head up Missing Persons. "We'll find him, Teresa. You know that."

She smiled, surprised at the tears that welled up in her green eyes. "I know. I'm just tired, that's all. Really."

His smile was gentle. "I know."

She looked down at the list. Far too long for just one man. "Let's get at it," she muttered, brushed the tears from her eyes and reached for the phone.

____________________________________

The wind had picked up as the night had fallen, and it chilled his skin and damp clothing and hair. Despite the chill, he was feverish and the two extremes were causing his body much grief. Sun stroke, most likely, combined with dehydration. It was with a detached air that he realized he would in all probability not live to see another night.

This was not the way he had envisioned his life to end. In fact, he had only seen it one of two ways, either by his own hand, or that of Red John's. Once, he had briefly entertained the idea that Lisbon might have to shoot him if he did in fact try to exact his revenge, and that thought was surprisingly comforting. He could die at her hands. That would be acceptable. Not desirable, but acceptable. Except for the fact that she would feel guilt for the rest of her life, and he wouldn't wish that on anyone. No when he killed Red John, it would have to be private.

Unless of course he died here.

And that, he realized, would be most regrettable.

There was a tall glass of water sitting on the deck, just a few feet away, unreachable even if his hands were free. Arlov had retired for the night and the buffoons were taking turns watching over him, sitting on the padded seating that rimmed the deck. They dozed, for the most part, dozed and drank and listened to their IPods. It was too dark for reading, and Jane wondered abstractly if buffoons read for pleasure and what they might read.

He closed his eyes and tried to sleep. It was hard to do when forced to remain kneeling, but he had seen yogis do it on the carnival circuit. Mind over matter was an amazing thing. The pain had dulled to a constant roar, nothing sharp, just all ugly, and it was like a heavy blanket that was impossible to shake off. So he wore it, wrapped himself in it, wringing every sensation out of it in order to make it last. Pain, it seemed, like the nothingness of the big empty night sky, was therapeutic, comforting, dependable, and not for the first time he understood the release that came when people cut themselves. It was an addiction, the rush of endorphins, a drug, a coping mechanism, not unlike sleeping pills, a neat Glenfiddich or a long walk after dark.

A hand touched his brow and he opened his eyes. The woman, now clothed in a red Japanese silk kimono, was standing beside him, her palm feeling his forehead, his cheek.

"You hev fever," she said. Her accent was not Russian, but similar. Czech, perhaps, or Croatian. His mind was too dulled to be accurate and he cursed the buffoon who had hit him. He nodded, smiling and she smiled back. He could barely make out the details of her face, as there was only a crescent moon in the sky for light, but he could tell she was young.

One of the buffoons barked at her in Russian, and to his surprise, she barked back. He could make out the word _Arlov,_ and she began gesturing with her right hand, as if Italian or French. With impressive subtlety she brought her left hand up to his face, and while still gesturing wildly with the right, she slipped an ice cube into his mouth. Sleight of hand. A little pro. A gypsy. Her trick finished, she spun on her heel and disappeared down the steps into the bowels of the yacht, still cursing madly.

It was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted and as it melted, the water cooled his mouth and trickled down his parched throat, not really making a dent in his thirst, but easing it just a little. And for the first time in his life he believed in angels.

The sun was starting to paint the sky red as it began its rise in the east. Red, naturally. Everything that caught his attention now was red. His life, which used to be a rainbow of colours had settled into red. Deep red, fire red, blood red.

Either way, on this day, something would end and it would be painted in strokes of red.

_**End of Chapter 4**_


	5. Chapter 5

**Paint It Red, Black & Blue**

_**Chapter 5**_

"Good morning, Mr. Jane."

His eyes popped open, and he was almost nose to nose with the deck. He had indeed fallen asleep, or slipped into unconsciousness or something similarly gratifying, and he shook his head to clear the heaviness. It didn't help. In fact, he felt worse, and he tried to straighten up to look Arlov in the eye, but found he couldn't. Couldn't even move.

Pathetic.

Orders in Russian, and rough hands grabbing his shoulders, hauling him backwards into his former position, the muscles in his back straining like young trees bent out of shape. He actually let out a gasp of air, and immediately cursed his weakness, for he could see Chiarli Arlov smiling at his discomfort. The man looked like a sailor today, navy polo shirt and white shorts. All he needed was the captain's hat. Of course, he had a tall ice-laden drink in his hand.

"I slept well last night. Did you?"

Jane gritted his teeth. Oh how his mouth wanted to run, to slice this man to ribbons with his tongue, to talk circles around him, bluff him, bluster him into confusion and bring_ him_ to his knees in intellectual defeat. But that would be loss, for the moment the first word came out, he'd be swimming. Then sinking. And that would be definitely counter-productive.

"You are not scared of me, are you, Mr. Jane?"

Jane shook his head, which was still spinning, tried to smile. No _'little rabbit'_ this time, just his name. Interesting.

The Russian waved for a deck chair, plopped unceremoniously in it, crossing his legs and sipped his tall glass. He cocked his head. "I find that very fascinating. I find _you _very fascinating. Why is that, Mr. Jane? Why are you so fascinating?"

Jane shrugged. It was a good question.

"24 hours for you, without one word. It has been hard for you, yes?"

Jane rolled his eyes. Arlov had no idea.

"Life is a game for you, yes? A funny, funny game…" This time, Jane made no response. That one couldn't be answered in pantomime.

"Because you have nothing left to lose…"

Again nothing. Jane was growing weary of this. It was counter-productive. He was growing weary of Chiarli Arlov and his petty mobster games. Of one man so self-assured that he could so easily usurp the basic dignity of another. It struck him that, what Arlov did with threats, he himself did with words. Of the two, words were far superior. But perhaps, he had to concede, a bit less deadly.

Arlov waved a hand and a buffoon trotted over, holding a manila envelope. Arlov reached in with delicate fingers, slid out what appeared to be a photo and put it on the deck, pushing it toward Jane's knees. It was an 8x10 snapshot of Teresa Lisbon, stepping out of a black SUV, sunglasses on, dark hair swinging in the breeze. Jane was immediately grateful for the sunburned face, the aching muscles, the spinning head. If he was going to play emotionally dead, Arlov had already given him the props.

"She is lovely, yes?" Arlov had stretched back in his chair, watching with his shark-like gaze. "So small, so sleek. Like a cat. You could crush her with one hand."

Jane tried not to grin. Arlov had never seen "the cat" take down a grown man at a dead run. She tackled like a quarterback. She grew up with brothers. She scrapped like a boy.

Arlov waved again, and a cell-phone was brought to him. Still watching Jane, he dialed eleven numbers and put the phone to his ear.

"May I speak to Agent Teresa Lisbon, please?"

_Now that,_ thought Jane, _was interesting._ The man was audacious. He had no fear. Fascinating.

"Yes, tell her Chiarli Arlov is on the line. I have a message from Patrick Jane…"

____________________________________

"_What??!!"_ Lisbon sat up from her position on the couch. She had been trying to channel the consultant, putting herself in "his shoes", or rather, in his couch, when the call had come in. "Arlov? Arlov has Jane?"

Van Pelt was standing at the door of Lisbon's office, holding Lisbon's phone in her hand. Her dark eyes were wide. "He wants to speak to you."

Arlov had been on the list, number 5 if she remembered correctly. The OCU didn't have a location for him, however. They'd been convinced he was somewhere in Fiji. Lisbon bolted off the couch, took a deep breath, and grabbed the phone. _Get Andy Mack. _she mouthed to Van Pelt, _Trace this call,_ and put the phone to her ear.

"This is Agent Lisbon."

"How are you, Agent Lisbon? My name is Chiarli Arlov…" She had never heard the man's voice before, but it was everything she had imagined, cool, smooth yet dangerous at the same time. Like a growl. A warning, just in the music of it.

"Yes, Mr. Arlov. You have news of Patrick Jane?" She did her best to keep her own voice level. It was hard, given the racing of her heart. _Lock it away,_ she thought to herself. _You are a professional. This is just another case._

"Yes, he sends his regards."

"How is he?"

"A little bit sunburned, I'm afraid. He looks like a lobster."

"Is that all?"

"Would you like me to ask him?" There was a pause, and the rustle of fabric. "How are you feeling, Mr. Jane? How is your head? He bumped his head, Agent Lisbon. On the doorway of my boat. I think he is fine. Are you fine, Mr. Jane? You may talk now. One word."

And then she heard it, one word from what sounded like worlds away. One word. "Yes." Relief flooded through her body, and she felt the odd need to sit down. She lowered herself onto his couch. "Jane? Can you hear me?"

"He can hear you, Agent Lisbon. But he is busy right now. Sun-tanning."

"What do you want, Mr. Arlov?" Van Pelt was motioning – Andy Mack was tracing the call.

"Me? Want? No, no, you misunderstand. I have everything I want. I lack nothing. So you see, Agent Lisbon, my life, in that respect, is boring. Everything is boring. Possessions are boring. People are boring. Even beautiful women, they are boring. There is not much to amuse me anymore. But Mr. Jane…" There was a pause, the clinking of ice in a glass, the sound of swallowing. "I find him quite…amusing…"

_This could go two ways_, she thought. "Yes, he is that."

"And so, I invite him to my boat, you see. To find out what makes him tick. Is that the right word? Tick?"

She pursed her lips. "It's a good word."

"Ah, good. Very good. So I must ask you a personal question, Agent Lisbon, if I may?"

She took another deep breath. Van Pelt was standing two feet away. The call was being traced by Andy Mack and the Missing Persons Unit and recorded for the entire CBI to hear.

"Yes," she said. "You may."

"Agent Lisbon, do you make Patrick Jane tick?"

"Is that what he told you?"

"Just asking."

"No," she said firmly, aware of Van Pelt's eyes on her. "I do not make Patrick Jane tick. I'm his boss, he works in my unit, that's all. Nothing more. Is that clear?"

Her world was spinning, upside down, all over the place. Was that a threat, or had Jane implied something? To her chagrin, she heard the low rumbling chuckle of a bored man suddenly pleased. She tightened her grip on the phone.

"Mr. Arlov," she forced her voice into a growl of its own. "If you want to find out what makes Patrick Jane tick, you need to read his history. If you can't figure it out, then you deserved to lose that painting."

Silence now, and she swallowed hard, Van Pelt staring at her with wide eyes. She wondered, for a brief instant, if she hadn't just sentenced her consultant to his death.

"Very interesting, Agent Lisbon. Very interesting, indeed. I will think on these things. Perhaps I will call again soon." And the line went dead.

She looked up at Van Pelt, feeling for some odd reason like a pile of wet laundry. The junior agent tried to smile. "At least he's alive."

Lisbon swallowed again. "Did we get a trace?"

"Um…" She put a second phone to her ear. "Yes, we have a trace. International waters off the Monterey coast, exactly 1 mile outside our jurisdiction."

Lisbon nodded, let out another deep breath. At least it wasn't Red John. Chiarli Arlov was a killer, not a serial killer. And right now, she was thankful for anything she could get.

_**End of Chapter 5**_


	6. Chapter 6

**Paint It Red, Black & Blue**

_**Chapter 6**_

If Patrick Jane were a believing man, he would say that God was smiling on him today. Clouds had settled in during the long afternoon, blocking the sun and giving the entire seascape a look of encroaching fog. Although it was still blistering hot, he was somehow cold. There was no breeze to speak of, and the heat, the exhaustion and rocking of the waves were conspiring to make him very, very sick. In fact, if there had been anything in his stomach, it would have been long gone by now, but the last thing he remembered ingesting was a Scotch…how long ago?

Oh yes, and the ice cube.

He shivered. Consciousness was slipping regularly, like a Tijuana drug-store sleeping pill not quite doing its job. Skirting the edges of sleep and waking, he found he wasn't even thinking much of anything anymore, and it occurred to him in whispers that he was dying. He couldn't even feel his arm, was certain that they had cut it off at some point, except for the fact that it was still taped behind his back. Or maybe he was, in fact, dead, and just didn't realize it yet.

If this was death, he mused, then he was in hell and the devil was wearing Prada and sipping Evian in a deck chair.

Arlov was indeed in his deck chair, a bottle of water at his side. He was working on his laptop, and every once in a while he would glance up at Jane, raise an eyebrow or two, then go back to his work. The buffoons bustled and chatted, laughed and smoked, doing all the odd jobs buffoons are usually paid to do. He hadn't seen the girl for a while, wondered abstractly if she was still on the boat, or whether Arlov had gotten tired of her and tossed her overboard during the night.

"Tell me about Red John." Arlov's voice was distant, echoing, slurred. Jane tried to look at him but both man and chair kept moving, sliding first one way then the other, up then down and around in circles. Or maybe that was him. It was very hard to focus anymore, to know what was real and what was mirage. He cursed that most of all.

"He killed your wife, yes? And little girl?" The man was apparently looking things up online, digging into one man's personal tragedy the same way some might look up the Roman Empire, how to make banana bread or the Olson Twins. "Sad for you."

There was no wind, no wind at all, and his body had even stopped sweating. Cold would come next, then confusion, then delusions, unconsciousness, kidney failure and death. He had read it somewhere and it was forever in his brain. Sometimes a photographic memory just wasn't helpful. He shivered again, a long violent tremor that started somewhere behind his ears and traveled down the rest of his body. Oh yes, he remembered, the cold had already started hours ago. Obviously then, so had the confusion. Delusions up next, ready for a swing at a blonde and very sunburned piñata.

"You insist on provoking dangerous men. Why?"

He closed his eyes. It was a stupid, rhetorical question. Only fools and madmen...

"You have brought this on yourself."

…_fools and madmen…_

"I would not have brought you here otherwise. You are nothing to me."

…_you can fight and live or give up and die…_

"I do not wish to kill you…"

…_fools and madmen…_

"…but how can I let you go with what you have done? It is bad for business. Surely you understand."

_daddy_

"You have put me in a most peculiar spot. Most peculiar."

_daddy_

He opened one eye.

_daddy daddy dee dee deeya deeya_

Birds, sea birds overhead. It was beginning again, he could feel it coming on, The colour that would soon consume him. He wished Sophie were here. She had helped him once. She was good at what she did. But she wasn't here, and the boat was rocking and the girl was dead and his arm was gone and the colours were so very strong.

_fight and live_

"What am to do with you now?"

_give up and die_

"Tell me, Mr. Jane. What are we to do?"

_the colours were calling_

He closed his eyes and welcomed them.

_Golden curls and rosebud lips, thick dark lashes closed over pale pink cheeks, like sleep but not, but never again, her green Tinkerbell nightgown pulled up to her throat and the red -_

He gasped, tried to clear his head but it was spinning. He could feel Arlov's eyes on him but didn't care. He would go where he was untouchable, deep into the world of colour.

_Dark hair combed and shiny, dark eyes wide and still, lips parted, unmoving and blue. Intestines pink. Liver brown. Stomach purple, kidneys olive, heart crimson. Cartilage yellow, bone creamy white, skin purple and blue and white, pale blue comforter soaked in red toenails painted red hardwood and carpet stained red walls dripping red red red_

The world was slipping out from under him and he tried to tell himself it was sunstroke, just sunstroke but the sun was gone so that left the stroke, the strokes, all there was now were strokes of red, circles and slashes and ghastly painted smiles

He heard voices and realized that somehow, at some moment, he had struggled to his feet. No one had stopped him, no one dared. He looked out over the water and saw them, holding hands and walking away, their beautiful long hair swaying across their backs. Golden curls bounced as his daughter turned to smile at him, a little wave and she was gone. And he realized that he could go too. It was easy. Just go.

And Patrick Jane began to walk, walk towards the edge of the boat.

Arlov was out of his chair in a heartbeat, shouting in Russian to the buffoons who were staring in disbelief. They had to run to catch him as he raised one foot onto the side of the yacht and they tackled him like a football, three of them crashing to the deck in front of the mob boss, sending his Evian tumbling across the floor. And still Jane pushed, forcing himself to his feet and straining to follow the trail into the water and the buffoons were only able to stop him by locking his bound arms in theirs, two men against one, pinning him until his struggles finally ceased and he grew still. He gazed out over the water.

They were gone. And he couldn't follow. He was alone.

Arlov moved in close. "You are insane…"

It took him awhile but finally Jane looked at him and smiled sadly. "Mr. Arlov," he said, in a voice flat and without emotion. "You don't really want to kill me, do you? You just want to win. But you can't win, can you? Not with me."

This time, it was Arlov who was silent.

"You want to know what makes me tick? Is that what this is all about? Is it really?"

The Russian narrowed his eyes.

"Because I don't think so. I'm tired of being quiet so I'm going to tell you exactly what I think…"

One corner of Arlov's mouth twisted up.

Jane sighed. "You're bored. I understand that. Possessions, power, luxury. Bah. It's all so yesterday. And I come along, bluff – no, _lie_ my way into your house – Oh my, how audacious, how reckless, how bold. Don't I know who you are? Don't I know that I could get killed? But I don't care, do I, and that intrigues you. You have no equals in your pathetic and sheltered little world, and I come along and raise that bar for you. Not only that, I steal your most recent acquisition, and you honestly don't know whether to hate me or worship me, but you can't do either because you're a shark and all you know how to do is own things. That's why I'm still alive right now, isn't it? Because for the first time in a long time, something or someone has made you _feel,_ and you just don't remember what to do with that anymore."

The buffoons shifted nervously, keeping their eyes anywhere but on their boss, waiting for the command that would send this man over the side, but no command was coming. For Arlov's part, he had not removed his gaze from Jane's face.

"But that still leaves you with a quandary, doesn't it? People know, people will talk. You need to be seen to be strong, powerful, dangerous. So I tell you what, I can give you a trade, Chiarli. Art for art, beauty for beauty, because like you, it's a painting that makes me tick."

Arlov was suspicious, but intrigued, especially at the prospect of art. He lived for art, for beauty. It was the only thing that gave him purpose. "What is this painting?"

"Oh, I can't tell you. It has nothing at all to do with words. I have to show you. It's all in the art, in the painting of it, the colour, it's a peculiar type of paint, you have to get it just right…"

It took several long seconds, but finally, Arlov nodded, and the men released their prisoner. Jane staggered a little, braced his legs against the rocking of the boat, and stared out over the water. Gone. Alone.

"Kindly cut me loose. And use a knife. Perhaps the one strapped to the ugly one's ankle. Or the small one tucked into the fat one's belt. I don't really care. Just make sure it is sharp, if you please."

At the nod of a head and the blade of a knife, the duct tape snapped free.

He almost passed out right there, as the pressure shifted from his chest and shoulders, muscles and tendons groaning in displeasure. Carefully now, he began to peel the tape from his wrists, one twice the size of the other, both red beyond belief. He took his time, peeling and lifting and letting the sliver tape fly off the side of the boat with immaculate care. He stopped and stared around at the aft deck, turned in a circle, palms outstretched as though divining. He saw the girl watching from the upper deck, one eye darkened, her cheek swollen. She smiled at him.

He smiled back.

"Give me the knife."

Arlov laughed. "I don't think so, Mr. Jane."

"Give me the knife or you'll never know. And I will in fact jump off this boat, in effect robbing you yet again of one of your life's few remaining pleasures."

After a long moment, Chiarli Arlov grinned. "Give him the knife."

The buffoon handed it over, hilt first. Jane examined it. It wasn't well detailed or finely crafted, but it had a good weight, felt good in his hand. He held up his swollen wrist, turned the palm toward his face and slowly pressed the point of the blade into his thumb. A pinprick of red popped up. Jane smiled. Beautiful. He drew the blade down, down his thumb, across his palm and stopped at his wrist, marveling at the immediate welling of red along the line. He tossed the knife over his shoulder and into the Pacific, secretly enjoying the grumbling of the buffoon as it disappeared under the surface.

There was no one else on the boat now, there wasn't even a boat. Just Jane and a canvas and the red. What made him tick, someone had asked? What made him tick?

He dropped to his knees, dipped three fingers in his own blood and began to paint…

_**End of Chapter 6**_


	7. Chapter 7

**Paint It Red, Black & Blue **

_**Chapter 7**_

It was night by the time the choppers reached the Monterey airfield, and another pair of dark SUVs were waiting to take them into the seaside town of Carmel. Lisbon and Cho took one, Rigsby and Van Pelt the other. The Monterey PD was at their disposal, and each vehicle had a squad car assigned to lead them through the winding streets. Lisbon elected not to drive, letting Cho take that job. Arlov had called while they were in the chopper en route to the coast and she was still going over the call in her head.

"_Please take him home," the Russian had said. "He is making me crazy, painting faces on my boat."_

Honestly, she couldn't imagine what the man was talking about. He also had seemed very insistent that Patrick Jane was insane. Quite insane. It didn't matter. They could expect Jane to be dropped off on one of the many small public beaches that graced Carmel's affluent neighbourhoods, and she found herself grateful that he wasn't being dropped off at _many_ of those small beaches. It implied the term "one piece" but with Arlov, there was no guarantee.

Carmel-by-the-Sea was what people might call a hamlet. Quaint European styled homes and high-end boutiques lined the narrow streets. The cool night air was heavy with the smells of flowering shrubs and salt, but other than the rush of waves, it was very quiet. She was impressed that there were so few streetlights to be seen, adding to the peace, the exclusivity of the area, and they had to follow closely to the car in front to avoid getting lost in the maze of short walled drives, one way streets and cobblestones.

She shook her head. The 'For Sale' signs were here too, just like in Sacramento, but nothing for less than a few million, she guessed. She knew that there were homes here that sold for one hundred times more than she made in a year, and marveled at the lifestyles of the rich and famous.

The car radio squawked and she picked up. It was the MPD dispatch. Their officers were patrolling the beaches, and apparently they had turned up something, just miles from the gated community of Pebble Beach. Her heart in her throat, they made some tight turns and headed to the beach.

____________________________________________

"Surfers called it in. He's just sitting there. It's weird."

She nodded to the uniformed patrolman and walked to the dark edge where the pavement met the sand, where a "Beach Closed after 10:00pm" sign and guard rope did little to prevent the moonlight swimmers or surfers that frequented the area. Cho fell in beside her, as the second SUV pulled up, and she waved the beam of a flashlight into the night.

The waves rolled and rushed and the wind had picked up, but it was a beautiful night. She could tell it was Jane by the set of his shoulders, the cut of the waist-coat, the way he sat on the sand. It was very dark, the moon almost a sliver now, but still she could tell. He was alone on the beach, watching the waves, not moving a muscle and he didn't even turn as she approached. She checked him over with her flashlight.

His right arm was in some sort of makeshift sling, but other than that, he seemed in one piece. It was too dark to see otherwise.

"Hey," she said.

At first, she didn't think he'd heard her, but then he turned his face, his eyes registered and he smiled. "Oh. Hello." Matter of fact. Like nothing had happened. His face was sunburned, she could tell, and bruised. Red, black and blue.

"Um, how are you doing?"

"Fine." And he turned away to stare out at the ocean.

She glanced at Cho, Rigsby and Van Pelt, shifting nervously in the sand behind her.

It was all she could do to stop the shaking. She wanted to drop to her knees, hold him, slap him, hit him, heal him. Far too many emotions were at war within her, fear, relief, fatigue, desire, fury. He pushed buttons without even knowing it, buttons she didn't even know she had.

Of all the emotions, the one she most easily rely on was fury. It was a mask for all the others. She put her hands on her hips and pushed her weight to one foot. "Do you really want to sit here all night? Because I could go home and get some sleep and come back for you in the morning. Or maybe the team and I will go grab some dinner. 'Cause, I don't know about you, but we've been worried sick and I haven't eaten for two days. Hey, we could come back and have a little picnic on the beach. How does that sound?"

"Dinner?" That caught his attention. "Dinner sounds good."

She wanted to pull out her hair.

"D'okaaay? Nooow?" She frowned, eyebrows drawn up in frustration. "Is there a problem?"

"I can't move."

"Oh! Oh geez. Oh geez, I'm sorry. Cho! Rigsby!" They were there even before she called their names, flanking him, slipping arms underneath his to gently help him to his feet. He let out a stream of "Ow ow ows" and yelps and groans, but eventually, they got him to his feet. The two men stayed right beside him.

"My jacket," he added. "Don't forget my jacket." It was sitting in a pile beside him in the sand.

As soon as he was standing, he began to brush himself off, his waist-coat, his pants, his sling. She shook her head in amazement. He was fastidious.

He looked up at them and smiled, his patented Patrick Jane smile. "Dinner?"

She grinned, her patented lop-sided grin. "Let's go. sailor boy."

He got all of three steps before he collapsed, Rigsby and Cho catching him before he hit the ground.

______________________________________________________

St. Vincent Carmel Hospital was very much like the community it served – wealthy, cutting edge, caring, profitable. Big dollars had gone into it from its inception, and the staff and facilities were second to none. But much to Teresa Lisbon's chagrin, it seemed no amount of money, pride or professionalism in the world could have prepared them for Patrick Jane.

He was speedily discharged within 8 hours, a record time for the treatment of sunstroke, and he received innumerable pints of IV fluids, countless needles filled with antibiotics and anti-inflammatories and painkillers, and dozens of cold packs to stabilize his wildly fluctuating body temperature. Added to all that, he received multiple sutures for a very strange laceration on his right hand and a single Xray to verify that his wrist (his radius, actually, one of the two bones of his forearm) was indeed broken and had to be cast. They had repeatedly offered to sedate him, as he had not stopped talking from the moment he had awakened, but she firmly believed the sedation would have been entirely for their benefit, not his. The nurses, he had alternately charmed and infuriated, the doctors he had alternately challenged and belittled, and she had to admit that the long, long list back in her office had probably just grown by several pages.

He went quiet, however, when they got him on the helicopter for the short flight back to Sacramento, and said even less as she drove him to his house.

It was early morning now, as they pulled up to the architecturally beautiful home, with its California Redwood siding, multiple rooflines and vast windows. Someone was obviously paid to maintain the landscaping (she just couldn't picture Jane as a gardener, although he likely knew the Latin names for every shrub and plant on his property, and the conditions each required for optimum growth.) The sun gleamed on the windows and it appeared that the irrigation system had just shut itself off. Altogether a picture of peace and beauty, stability and security. The inside, she knew, was a different story.

He made no move to get out of the car, and she made no move to make him.

"Thank you," he said finally.

A myriad of responses ran through her head, some encouraging, some sarcastic, all unoriginal, so she settled for a simple "You're welcome." That seemed to please him, for he smiled to himself. It made the bruises less noticeable.

"Jane?" she asked, swallowing her hesitation. "Were you scared?'

"Hmm?" For the first time in hours, he looked at her. "Scared? Of Arlov? Nah. He's a thug. He wanted to prove a point. I let him. It was a good point."

"Oh?" She raised her eyebrows. "And what was it?"

"Ah," he grinned. "I need to stop provoking dangerous men."

She snorted. "Like that's gonna happen anytime soon."

He almost laughed, and she thought that sometimes he looked like a little boy. A very smart little boy who kept picking school-ground fights with all the bullies he could find. He was proving a point too, no doubt, but he might just get himself killed in the process.

"If you need some time off…"

"Idle hands are the devil's workshop."

"Right." She grinned again. "Well, if you need anything…"

He wanted to say something, she could tell, but nothing came out. Tongue-tied? Not likely. Stubborn? Proud? Quite. But there was something else, something different, just out of reach…

"Anything at all…" There was nothing else she could say, handing him the opportunity on a silver platter. She hated herself for holding her breath.

"Fools and madmen…" he muttered cryptically, almost to himself.

"Sorry? What?"

His smile said it all. "Nothing… I'm fine. Really." He slipped out of the car, a little less gracefully than usual. "See you tomorrow." And with that, he walked up the steps that led to the door of his house. He did look back as he went inside, waved his little wave _– Yes, go now, please –_ as if to say, and then he was gone, closing the door on more than one thing behind him.

She sat for a moment, words running through her mind. Jane's – _fools and madmen._ Arlov's - _quite insane._ How would you know if someone were 'quite insane?' She was probably the closest person to him. Would _she_ know if he were quite insane? Would _he?_ She roared the engine into reverse, cursing the sudden urge to cry, and tore off back to the city.

_______________________________________________________

Patrick Jane walked up those stairs like he had a hundred times before. Passed the red wall, once filled with family photos framed in black. Paused, as always, with his hand on the door knob, and as always, he had to take a deep breath before entering the room. It was different today, as he rarely entered in the daytime, it almost always only at night, and then he would never turn on the lights. This room was burned into his memory. He didn't need to see. Today, the sun streamed in the large windows, making spotlights on the wall.

It was colourless, save for the red.

"_Were you scared?" she had asked. _Yes, very. Terrified, in fact, but not of Arlov, he had wanted to tell her, not of Arlov, but of himself.

He stood for a long time, his stare going from the face to his cast and back again. It had tripped a dangerous wire, what he had done with the knife on the deck of Arlov's boat. He lived on that wire most of the time, a balancing act kept in check only by his newfound need for reform and revenge. The celebration of life in the single-minded pursuit of death. But he had strayed too far this time, embraced too much, and it shook him to his very core.

The face was smiling at him.

"What do we do?" he asked aloud, Arlov's question, as if the face would answer.

No, not the face. His wife. She would know. He need only imagine.

And then she was there, her face in his mind, her dark eyes gentle yet amused. _You're asking me? she would taunt, playful, elusive. _He could hear her as if she were standing right there, before him.

"Why won't you let me follow?"

She would reach for him, stroke his face, shake her head. He could see it all. _Not your time, love. Not yet. Besides, _she would push him away, scrunching her nose, _You need to take a shower. Get out of those clothes. You smell like a dead fish._

He smiled. That's exactly what she would say. In another lifetime, she would join him in the shower, trying to keep him quiet so as not to alert their daughter to their activities. He would deliberately not be quiet, thereby provoking her too.

He didn't bother wiping the tears that were running down his cheeks as his imagination waned and was replaced by the face on the wall. He sighed.

"I need to stop provoking dangerous men."

He grinned. Fools and madmen.

"You're right, Lisbon. That's not going to happen anytime soon…"

And still smiling, he headed for the shower, alone, pleased that this time, Teresa Lisbon had been right.

_**The end**_


End file.
